


Don't Be Frightened

by argelfraster_z



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Poor Raoul, Useless Lesbians, he really doesn’t have any clue what’s going on, it makes me so happy that that’s a tag, madame giry is legendary, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 08:48:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28348680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argelfraster_z/pseuds/argelfraster_z
Summary: Keeping secrets is hard, but Christine thinks she and Meg are up to the task. (oneshot) (I really don’t know what happened here)
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Meg Giry, Madame Giry & Meg Giry, Raoul de Chagny & Christine Daaé
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8





	Don't Be Frightened

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea at 1am and decided I’d write a very short piece :) that’s all the context you get, enjoy!
> 
> Music: AJR OK Orchestra trailer music loop (I have to wait until march for the album nooo)

“Excuse me… Madame… excuse me!” Raoul elbows his way through the crowd, trying to catch the tall woman in black whom he is quite sure is the ballet mistress, and who is likely the only one who can deliver his letter to Christine. 

Christine is here! He still can’t quite believe it. His childhood friend, lost for so many years, and suddenly reappearing right under his nose where he least expected her. The years have changed them both, he is sure, but he can’t help but hold out hope that she will remember him. 

The woman turns, her expression sharp and practiced. 

“Can I help you, Monsieur le Vicomte?”

“Yes—I—” he takes a deep breath to compose himself. “If you would be kind enough to deliver this message to Mademoiselle Daaé, it would be greatly appreciated,” he says, trying his best at a charming smile. She nods curtly, takes the message, and disappears through a door he has somehow failed to notice. 

His message is on his way, he thinks, smiling, and with any luck, he shall speak to Christine again within the hour. And then he is swept up by the managers, by talk of business, talk of the opera, though he keeps glancing back at the well-hidden door and, eventually, asks to be escorted to Mademoiselle Daaé’s dressing room.

The letter is a strange weight in Madame Giry’s pocket, the weight of truth, of the real, cruel, world that is coming for Christine and her daughter. She has no doubt that the Vicomte really does mean well, and no doubt that seeing him again will be a great joy for Christine, but it is a rather unfriendly reminder of the world outside these walls, of the judgement and expectations they will face. Especially from the men who will start to notice them, eventually. 

The two of them are perfect for each other, she knows, friends of many years turned shy, secretive lovers. At least, it is clear that they believe they are secretive. Meg has always thought she was the best liar, the best secret-keeper of them all, but in truth, Madame Giry allows herself to take credit for the fact that their sweet, strange relationship has not been discovered. 

Marguerite and Christine. Christine and Marguerite. Even their names fit well together, she thinks, turning the Vicomte’s letter over and over in her hands, delaying its delivery. 

In truth, Madame Giry thinks she is the one best suited for keeping secrets, as her daughter still denies there is anything between them except for friendship, and Madame Giry prides herself on keeping her own knowledge of their halting love private, even from the two of them. 

It is for this reason that, when she hears their quiet, laughing voices, and sees the unmistakable shape of the Vicomte walking with the managers at the other end of the hallway, her hand tightens around the thin, black cane and she hurries to reach the door and send her daughter firmly away before anyone sees anything they aren’t supposed to. 

Her Maman has not been forthcoming about the opera ghost, but Meg immediately senses a similarity between the little her mother has revealed and Chris’ description of her Angel of Music. They are one and the same, she feels instantly, though perhaps Chris doesn’t realize it yet, and it worries her. She tries to ask questions, but is met with frustrating and somewhat adorable answers. 

She sends Chris’ dresser away, thanking the woman, who seems merely grateful that she is slightly less picky than La Carlotta. 

“But  _ who _ is this angel?” she presses, gently setting both of her hands on Chris’ shoulders, trying to follow her gaze where it lands up in the rafters, concealed by the walls of her dressing room. It looks like she is simply staring at the ceiling, but Meg feels she sees something there that no one else can, or perhaps that no one else wants to. 

She takes her friend’s hand, cold as ice, and, worried, she turns Christine’s face to hers, pale and ghostly. 

“It frightens me,” Chris admits, setting her other hand atop their clasped ones, and standing so that Meg must look up slightly to see her eyes. 

“Don’t be frightened,” she tells her gently, reaching her hand up to touch her hair, trailing it down until it rests on her cheek. 

For everything in the world, Meg would not give up the loving warmth in Christine’s eyes as they gaze at each other, the ghost or angel or whoever he is now forgotten as the depth of her love for this girl blazes through her. Tonight, Chris belonged to the entire world, or, rather, the entire world belonged to her, her voice drawing all of them in, ensorcelled by the beauty as Meg watched from the shadows, hidden love pounding freely in her chest, but now, for these fleeting moments, they belong only to each other. 

That is, until she hears the tell-tale sound of her mother’s cane rap the floor roughly, and they jump apart, Meg throwing her hands behind her back in surprise and an attempt at innocence. 

“Meg Giry,” her mother says, venom in her voice, and she shrinks, fearful of her mother’s suspicion, and worse, rejection if she learns the truth. Her and Chris are good at keeping secrets, but she knows that rumors carry fast here, and if one were ever to start, they could be ruined. “Are you a dancer?” her mother questions, and she shifts uncomfortably. “Then go and practice.” 

She exits the room quickly, giving Chris one last glance before joining the other dancers, going through the motions of the ballet and trying to focus on anything but the fear she harbors, that her mother knows more than she lets on, and that this angel, this phantom, will try to steal Christine from under her nose just as other girls swear he steals their hair brushes and trinkets. 

Christine is not a trinket, not something to be won or lost or stolen, and nothing could ever pass between them that would dampen Meg’s love for her. 

“Things have changed, Raoul!” she calls after him, shutting the door against the onslaught of emotions. Raoul is here, after all these years, and she is infinitely grateful to see him again. But things have changed,  _ she _ has changed, they both have. 

She doesn’t quite know what they shared in their youth, what to call it; was it friendship or something more? Her gratitude for his return to her life is overwhelming, but dimmed by the thought that he might expect something more from their gentle friendship, something that she would never want with him, nor with any other man. 

The angel will be upset with her, she knows, and it is no surprise when she hears his voice whispering like thunder through her dressing room, and she stands, telling him that Raoul is of no consequence, to forgive her for such an error as letting him into her room in such a manner.

Though she loves Raoul dearly as a brother and as a friend, his advances truly are of no consequence, especially as she remembers the painfully adorable look on Meg’s startled face when Madame Giry had burst into the room. 

And then, suddenly, the angel is revealing himself, the mirror opening to reveal a dark passage beyond, his hand reaching out, and she takes it, letting herself be led through the secret door and into the space beyond. Perhaps she is scared, but the fear shrinks when she remembers Meg’s words, said so softly, their faces only inches apart, “Don’t be frightened.” 

She isn’t frightened. Not of what has long been growing between her and her best friend of so many years, not of the silly whispers they’ve shared in the rafters of the opera house, not of anyone finding out, because the two of them are the best secret-keepers the Opera Populaire has ever seen. 

Remembering those final words, that final smirking smile, she lets herself trust Meg, trust this angel of a man her father has sent, lets herself think of her somewhat-more-than-friend’s graceful movements and beaming face even as she is escorted through this subterranean world, this dungeon of a home. 

All of these silly men, vying for her attention, she thinks, when the one true romance is hiding in plain sight right in front of their eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I really don’t know why I wrote this but I hope you liked it! The world needs more Megstine right now :) I hope your holidays were safe and happy! Also I’ll be posting a useless little thing on new years as a present to everyone hehe
> 
> A


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